When She Loved Me
by kitsune21809
Summary: An alternate universe in which Sofia, Amber and James are older during the series. Short-ish drabbles that center around Sofia and her relationship with a fumbling Sorcerer. Very AU. Strong T.
1. Key

An alternate universe in which Sofia, Amber and James are older during the series. Short-ish drabbles that center around Sofia and her relationship with a fumbling Sorcerer. Very AU.

Note: These drabbles will deviate away from Disney's overly sentimental ideals and introduce a more real world perspective that fits the era. However this will still hold the fantasy/fictional genre because I'll still keep the magic and mythological creatures. Maybe throw in a few fables. I'll also change a few things concerning the powers and origin of Sofia's amulet.

* * *

**Key**

Sofia goes to the table and begins putting the potions away, one by one, in the high cupboard. Once, she manages to sneak a quick look at him, and catches him watching her again. _He has to be thinking about it. Either that_ she considers _or he knows I am, and he's laughing at me. That would be just like him, to sit there and tease me, and then let me walk out!_ She's nearly out of bottles before she hears his chair scrape the floor. Without pausing in her work, without even glancing over her shoulder, she listens to the sound of his footsteps as he walks toward her.

Cedric comes up behind her, taking the last bottle from her grasp and cramming it into the cupboard himself. As he does so, he steadies himself by placing his left hand on her waist. "Here," she gives him the key. "Would you lock it too, please? I can't reach the lock." She can, she knows it and so does he but he takes it from her anyway.

As he places the key in the lock, Cedric slides his arm a little farther around her, until his hand is in front of her, drawing her body snugly against his own. She makes no move to discourage him, and, with a soft hint of a laugh, he bends down to her and brushes his lips against her ear. "Shall I put the key away, Madame?"

With the bit of metal in his fingers, Cedric traces a line running down from her throat and makes as if to tuck the key into her dress, but she catches his hand and says, "Not in there, I'll never find it again."

"I could help you look for it," he suggests, nuzzling her, his lips tickling the spot where her neck met her shoulder…

"Ceedric—" She tries to sound cross, but it comes out all wrong. It must be the ridiculous smile on her face.

"Cedric." His tone manages to be both affectionate and chastising as he continues to nibble at her…

She shrugs him off in a desperate attempt to stop herself from giggling like a silly girl at his attentions, but Cedric, still clasping her around the waist, simply uses this as a chance to turn her around so she's facing him. There is no roughness in the way he handles her, but she can feel the muscles in his wiry arms. It had not occurred to her before this that he would be quite so strong, and the realization sends a delicious shudder of excitement through her. With a look in his eyes that mirrors her thoughts Cedric brushes her cheek with the back of his fingers, then slips his hand behind her neck and caresses her there too. He has such marvelous hands, she thinks. So often, she has watched him fondling a wand or a potion vial in his long fingers, while she fantasized about the unspeakable bliss those fingers would have felt had they possessed her senses. Sofia nestles her head into his palm, her upturned face welcoming him, and Cedric bends down and kisses her.

She's startled by the jolt of pleasure that shoots through her as she starts kissing back. She presses her mouth against his, pulling and tearing at him hungrily, but Cedric, his fingers rubbing the back of her neck, coaxes her into his slower, lazier rhythm. He tastes of wine, and of spices, and of everything exotic and forbidden, and Sofia catches herself making odd, half-stifled noises as she digs her fingers into his shoulders. She's mad, she's foolish, to let him kiss her, to let him overpower her good sense with just the touch of his lips against hers. It's forbidden. She's a princess and he… but she gives herself up to the warmth of him and lets him melt her down as if she weren't so much as butter on the fire. Sofia settles quite comfortably into a liquid state, when his kisses begin to let up, growing briefer and gentler as he gradually eases her back into consciousness. Opening her eyes, she's met by a look of such tenderness that it makes her heart flutter. Fortunately, she's far too sensible to mistake it for a declaration of love.


	2. Name

**Name**

"It's Cedric." He says and she has to fight back a grin.

"No it isn't."

He glares at her, cocking a hand against his hip as she goes to lounge lazily in his desk chair, flipping half-heartedly through the pages of his spellbook. He's already forgotten why she's here in the first place. The moment his mutilated name leaves her lips he focuses on that; has to focus on something, anything, to keep from focusing on her lithe form draped in his chair, long, slender legs folded over the side and curling, coppery hair blanketing the other.

"Are you telling me I don't know my own name? It's Cedric, not Ceedric."

She licks her thumb with a grin, flips another page, flicks her eyes up to him in challenge. "I don't think you do, because your name is Ceedric." She's teasing him, he realizes and his eyes narrow.

"Cedric!" He growls irritably. Sofia grins as her eyes alight on a particular spell in his book and she takes one of his older wands from a stand on his desk. It's the third he's ever owned, made of twisted ash tree and black as night. He starts to snap at her not to touch his things lest she do something foolish like turn herself into a newt again, but she points it at him instead, a teasing grin on her face and his glare vanishes. He flinches, ready to leap out of the way when she mutters gleefully, '_dei thelis jahak noreth'_. A bolt of blue light streaks from the wand's tip and he ducks, feels it zap into his hair anyway. He doesn't have to look in a mirror to know that she's turned it blue; all of it.

He regrets taking her on as his apprentice, as it's quite obvious he's far too good of a teacher if she can perform spells with ease now. He snatches the wand away and with a swish, changes it back to its mismatched colors. "Very funny."

She sits up with a giggle, hooks a finger into his tie and gently pulls him down to her level. "Oh, stop being such a Grumpy Gerdie." She says. He rolls his eyes as he places his hands on the chair's arms around her for balance. "Oh, now you're just being ridiculous."

With a grin she closes the space with a kiss, effectively silencing him. He sags into her, relishing these little moments that come too few and far between for his liking. The light glints off her amulet before his eyes close, reminding him of the whole point of this charade he's trapped her in before he begins to fall for it himself.

* * *

The crown sits on his head. The amulet rests against his collar. And Sofia is forced to kneel at the foot of the throne like a common prisoner before him. He doesn't like the sight as much as he might have thought; in fact, it makes him sick.

The guards he's enchanted have been rough with her but he has no doubt that she put up quite the fight when caught. There's blood on her cheek and a dark bruise forming beneath, her lip is split and bleeding, the shoulder of her dress is ripped and she's missing her shoes. Her hair is a disheveled mess and the dark look in her eyes as she finally meets his is enough to make any man run pissing in fear.

"Cedric!" She spits his name, correctly and literally as blood decorates the prim, white carpet beneath her. It sounds like a curse to his ears, and he's never hated the sound of his own name more.


	3. Cold

**Cold**

Her hand slides along the damp, stone wall as she climbs the spiraling stone steps of the tower. Her breath fogs in front of her and she shivers; pulls her fur lined cloak tighter around herself as snow drifts through one of the small windows high above her.

As she nears the top, she's greeted by two snarling gargoyles and a broad, wooden door. It's late, the castle having only just settled for the night and she knows that he'll probably be asleep too by now. She doesn't bother with knocking, lifts the gargoyle's toe and procures the hidden key that will gain her entrance.

She sighs in bliss from the warmth that immediately sinks into her bones as she enters. Leave it to Ceedric to enchant his tower to stay nice and warm in the winter while the rest are forced to starve off the cold on their own. Wormwood is sleeping easily on his perch, his head turned to nestle in between his shoulders. She creeps by him, and he sleeps on none the wiser.

Down in the lower level of his tower, she finds his room by heart now. A hidden door behind a tall portrait - what appears to be a dragon in flight - leads her to it. She presses the dragon's left wingtip and with an audible 'click', the door swings ajar.

His room is moderately small, a bed, a dresser, chamber pot and tub pushed in the corner. He's lying facing the wall and he's still wearing his regular clothes. The only thing he's missing is his shoes, vest and robe. He doesn't bother with the blanket but rather lies on top of it. She sheds her cloak and drapes it over the back of the only chair in the room and kicks off her slippers. With only her nightgown to shield her, she quickly crosses the room and slips into the bed behind him as the stone floors are still somewhat chilly. His arms are crossed and as her hands slide up under them, he stirs, fights back a yawn and he flips over to gather her against him. With a sigh, Sofia nuzzles into his neck and curls into the warmth that it seems only he can provide.

"You're going to get in trouble if the maid finds you out of bed again." He mutters into her hair.

She giggles secretively and he lifts his head to glance at her curiously. "No I won't because I enchanted one of my old dolls to look like me. They'll never know and I'll be back before they can figure it out." He'd been teaching her rudimentary magic before their little tryst began – an excuse she could use to visit him more often than what might be considered proper – and it seemed she'd been paying at least a little attention. He grins and twists his fingers into her hair. "Oh? What spell did you use?"

She rolls onto her back as he props up on one arm to loom over her; her fingers dance around the hem of his shirt, brushing the sensitive skin beneath. "_Ido esinasolat_," she breathes as his fingers brush the dip between her neck and shoulder, then lower still.

"Very good," He whispers, a wolfish smile playing on his lips as he slides the gossamer fabric off her shoulders, his mouth making a trail behind it.


	4. Failure

**Failure**

It's raining. Rivets of water pour down the other side of the window pane, mocking him, laughing at him. Punishing him.

Cedric hadn't meant to cause the storm. Honestly, he hadn't. The king had asked for a cool breeze to ease the sweltering heat of the warm, summer day beating down on all their necks and he had been all too eager to help. Perhaps that's what did it? He'd been so eager to please the king for once that he'd bumbled his own spell in the process? Or perhaps it was the nervous jittering in his hands at the prospect that he _would _mess up?

Either way, he had, and the annual Tri-Kingdom Picnic had been ruined by the torrential downpour - border lining hurricane - he'd caused. Cedric sniffs and tells himself it's because of the water still dripping from his hair and not because for the first time in a long time he feels like crying. He hasn't cried since he was a boy and he'd be damned if he'd start now. You're not a blubbering child so grow up! He thunks his head against the window pane, his breath fogging the glass as he stares listlessly at the rain streaming on the other side.

You're a failure.

Can't you even perform one simple spell?

What's _wrong_ with you?

He just doesn't understand it. He comes from a long line of sorcerers. Magic is in his _blood!_ His father, grandfather, even _great-_grandfather were all distinguished sorcerers of their time. All important, all powerful, all…great. Hell, even his mother, with her darker inclination towards mischief, had been a name whispered with awe and respect among the common people.

But not him, not _Cedric_.

The look on their faces when, instead of a pleasant breeze, a harsh gale blew them literally off their feet. Women's parasols swept out of their hands, men's hats sent flying. Dark clouds rolling in the sky, thunder clashing as people scramble to get inside. Those first, freezing drops of rain. The rage in Roland's expression as he turns to him, boldly ripping the wand out of his trembling hands and tossing it away.

_Cedric, you bumbling fool! Can't you do anything right?!_

His hands, which lay draped over his propped knees, clench into fists and his knuckles shine white through the skin. A pain sears into his chest and burns and morphs into hatred. He's tired of being called a failure, tired of being looked down on, of being labeled as nothing more than a mistake.

He has power. He knows it, he can feel it. Burning, boiling, bubbling just beneath the surface, waiting to break loose. If he could only tap into its reserves, harness it, control it, then and only then could he show them just how powerful he really is.

His eyes glitter gold in the dim torchlight, his nails bite into his palms, his heart pounds and blood rushes in his ears. Anger seethes in his veins like poison. His eyes catch on the floor length mirror on the opposite wall. His reflection, weak, thin, small and wiry angers him, disgusts him. Is this how people see him? Has he always looked so…small? So pathetic?

Curled in the window seat of his tower, watching the rain and sulking like a petulant child! A pressure seems to build inside the room, growing and growing until it crackles in the air around him. The mirror shatters, glittering shards decorating the stone floor beneath. He looks away then with a grimace, presses his palms into his eyes to ease their burning.

He hears the crunching of shoes walking over the glass. Looking up, he sees her there, amidst the remains. Her mouth is open as she stares in amazement at the mess he's caused. His lost wand hangs from her numb fingers. She's soaked, he realizes, her dress and hair are dripping from the rain. Finally, she looks up, catches his eye. Shock fades into sadness, fades into pity.

"Ceedric." Sofia says softly, picking her way over the glass towards him.

He turns away with a sneer. He doesn't want her pity. She sets the wand on his desk as she passes. Steps away from him, she stops as his burning, amber gaze settles on her in a glare so hateful it shakes her to the core. "Get out." He hisses.

An expression of hurt crosses her face but he doesn't care. Nor does he care that speaking to her in such a manner could easily land him in the dungeons for a night or worse. But Sofia refuses to flinch at the hostile demand and moves two steps nearer to the window and him. The wounded expression fades.

He wishes she would go, because now he feels bad for snapping at her, and why should he feel bad when it's them that do nothing but look down their noses at him?

"Have you come to see the bumbling sorcerer then?" He spreads his arms in grand invitation. "Shall I dance for you, perhaps cast a little charm for your entertainment. Careful, I might curse you instead." He sneers. "Or is it something else?" The cruel mocking light in his eyes makes her sick. She sees something in him, something dark, pushing, clawing its way out and it scares her. "Has your bed grown cold again, m'lady? Do you seek distraction from your wearisome life of wealth and privilege?"

She lets the mocking words pass over her, though they scrape and scratch at the protective barrier she's erected around herself. He's hurt and he's angry and that's where all of this is coming from. He doesn't mean it. She keeps telling herself this because she refuses to believe otherwise. She closes the distance between them and perches on the seat beside him. He's still glaring at her but it's somewhat subdued now, less angry, less accusing. She closes her eyes and lies against him, tucking her feet underneath her as her arms wrap around his chest and hold tight. He's stiff, and motionless beneath her.

"They're wrong." She whispers. "Father, Baileywick, all of them are wrong. You have power, I've seen it. I've felt it." Her whispered words of comfort and encouragement subdue the raging torrential swell of emotions within him and he finally relaxes, wraps his arms tightly around her waist, drops his head back against the cold stone.

"You have so much magic inside you that you can't possibly control it all and…that's why…"

Her belief in him is baffling. Her hands rub his back in soothing circles, his heartbeat echoes in her ears. "But someday, I know…you'll be greater than anyone has ever been. I know you will." He closes his eyes because her words are empty. How could she know? Then she looks at him, and there is no lie in her blue eyes. She truly believes in the things she tells him. She believes in him. "Trust me."

And he does, because there's nothing more he can do.


	5. Agony

**Agony**

She can't take it anymore. This place, this castle, the King. There's a corruption here that had been so easily hidden before, a gossamer veil that had been pulled over her eyes, blinding her to the truth. Well, the veil is gone and she's not blind anymore. Sofia bursts into her chambers, sweat dabbling her brow and her face pinched in pain. Annie, her serving girl, glances up in alarm from her position by the armoire, where she'd been hanging a freshly laundered dress. "Miss? Are you alright?" She takes a step towards her and Sofia brushes past, towards her closet. "Leave me." She says briskly. Annie, as well as the other two maids standing in attendance stare at her in astonishment and slight confusion. "Out!" Sofia barks, turning and flinging her arm towards the door. They scramble out of the room and she tries to steady her breathing.

She places a hand over her stomach and another at her back. She almost can't breathe, and her corset feels as if it's choking her. But she manages to calm down long enough to catch her breath and look about the room. 'I'll leave.' She decides. 'I'll go now.' She thinks of Cedric, and his equal animosity towards this place. 'I'll take him with me. We'll go together, somewhere where they'll never find us.'

She rushes around the room, grabbing only the barest of needs. A change of clothes, a serf's dress and linen shift she'd bartered from one of the kitchen maids, a few pieces of fruit from a bowl on the table, some jewels and a purse of coins from her armoire. It wasn't much but it would get them settled at least.

She turned and almost screamed, dropping the purse and bag she'd begun to pack as she nearly collided with Cedric. His arms caught her shoulder's steadying her before she fell. "Sofia, I..."

"I'm glad you're here." She said quickly, pulling away from him to grab the bag and purse from the floor. She went to her bed and began stuffing the items she'd thrown onto it into the bag. He watched in confusion as she did this.

"I was going to send word for you." She said, turning to him.

"Sofia, I need you to give me the amulet." He said, stopping her before she could continue. Her smile slowly fell and her sporadic hands fell to her sides. "What?"

"With its power I can take over the kingdom."

"What are you saying?"

"I can get rid of Rowen and all the others who wronged us. We can be happy, we won't have to hide anymore. I can give this place a future it deserves; I can give _us_ a future here." Sofia can only stare at him as if he's gone mad. Maybe he has, there's a gleam in his eyes. A gleam she sees in Rowen's eyes, a gleam she's seen in her mother's, in Amber's and James' eyes. A lust for power.

She shakes her head. "No…no! We don't need that. We can leave…" She closes the distance between them, takes his hands in hers. "Leave with me, we'll go _anywhere_, _be _whoever we want. We don't _have_ to stay here."

"What?" He says quietly.

"I have a friend at the docks with his own ship; I have enough money for us to start anew!" He shakes his head, his brows furrowing and she feels anger and desperation clawing at her insides. "I can't leave here!"

"Why not?"

"Because," He pulls away, paces in front of her. "I've spent my life trying to build something here. It's all I have! I can't just walk away…"

"It is _not_ all you have!" She almost screams. "Ceedric, this place i-is just…stone! It cannot love you back!" Tears burn her throat making her voice hitch, trace down her cheeks as she presses a hand into her chest. "Your father left you, your mother was taken from you, the whole kingdom laughs at you…everything you have ever loved, you have lost and it terrifies you! You don't want to help this kingdom, you want power! Because you are so scared you might lose something even more precious to you!"

He says nothing, but she can see the pain in his eyes, can see the tick in his jaw as he grits his teeth. She takes a step towards him but he backs away and her breath hitches in her throat. Her hand beats lightly against her chest, enunciating every word. "But not me." She whispers. "I will never, ever leave you." She takes another step, and smiles when he doesn't move but just stands there. In his eyes she can see his thoughts, warring with each other, fighting for a decision. "I love you." She says.

There's a knock on the door. "Mr. Cedric." A raspy voice calls. She glances at the door, not recognizing the voice, but knowing he brought them there, to force the amulet from her if she would not give it willingly. She slowly turns back to him, her face pale and worn. "You brought them here?" She asks in a tiny, broken voice. A voice that screamed, _'Why? How could you do this to me, to us?'_

His hands shake as she takes them again. "Ceedric, please! Come with me, right now! We can be free of this place. We can have a life together!" His mouth opens a few times, trying to push the words out. She places her hands on his cheeks, her thumbs brushing the soft skin of his jawline. "All you have to do is say yes." She kisses him, though he doesn't return it. Her tears land on his face, giving the illusion that he is the one crying. "Please." She whispers.

He pulls her hand away and with a look of agony, he chokes, composes himself, turns to the door. "Come in."

In astonishment, Sofia wrenches her hands away and backs up. Three men enter; she's never seen them before. "Sofia, I need you to give me the amulet."

She wipes her tears with a glare. "And if I don't?" She doesn't have to ask, she already knows.

He sighs and looks away, that look of agony is back and some small part of her is glad. She wants him to hurt as much as she hurts now. One of the men, a short fellow with a rotund gut and bald head speaks. "This doesn't have to go badly." He says complacently, pleadingly. Her head whips towards him and snarl in her voice as she growls. "I want him to say it!" Turns back to Cedric who is watching her, who flinches at the raw anguish in her voice as she spits. "I want him to say that he will sit there and watch as you beat me into submission. All so he can have his revenge on people who mean _nothing!_"

His lips tremble, and he shakes his head but he says nothing and she glares at him. "Say it." She says. "SAY IT!"

For a moment, the entire room is silent, and even the men watch with baited breath for him to speak. Finally, with an acidic smile, Sofia wrenches the necklace over her head, her hair whipping around her furiously and with a final squeeze, throws it at his feet. The men leave, but Cedric does not and they are left in a silence that suffocates them. He bends, takes the amulet in his hand and steps towards her. "Sofia please."

"Get out." She holds a hand up before he can get too close and stares at the ground in shock.

"I meant what I said, we can be happy now…"

"GET OUT!" She screams, her eyes like cold shards of ice boring into him.

His hand drops and he takes a step back, then another. He turns and walks away, the door closing softly behind him. With a ragged sob, Sofia falls to her knees and buries her face in her hands.

* * *

**Have any suggestions for a drabble? Let me know.**


	6. Name - Alternate Version

**Name - Alternate Version**

"You're doing it wrong." He says rather haughtily from his large oaken desk in the corner of the room. She glares at him, her ward sinking in her grip and the apple which she's been trying for the past hour to turn into a butterfly, withers into a pile of mush. "Oh no! Now see, you've distracted me!"

He chuckles as he flips a page in his spell book, then turns and sprinkles something in the miniature bubbling cauldron beside it. There's a flash of purple smoke that shimmers in the firelight and the bubbling blue mixture turns an exotic orange. "Oh is that the excuse you're going with?" He turns to her smirking. "I 'distracted' you?"

Sticking her tongue out at him, Sofia crosses her arms. "Well, perhaps if I had a little help…"

"I've already showed you this. It's not my fault you don't know how to concentrate…"

"Pleeeeaaaseee." She begs, pouting sweetly at him and he sighs. Taking the wand from her, he motions the proper way to hold and move it in order to make the spell work however just as he expects, she's not paying the slightest attention. Well, she looks like she is, her eyes follow every movement his hands make and yet her eyes are unfocused, there's a far off look in them that tells him she's thinking of something entirely different.

Sofia _was_ paying attention- at first; in fact, she listened all the way up until he began demonstrating how to move the wand. Then her eyes glued onto those long slender fingers as they twirled the twisted little stick through the air as if they held a magic all their own. She grins, perhaps they do. She fantasizes about those hands, of feeling them in her hair, on her skin. Just as her mouth parts from the thought, the wand dips too close to her and taps her nose, giving her a little, painful shock. She yelps, jumps back and rubs her face to ease the itchy feeling that's settled there now. "Hey!"

He's frowning at her, unamused. "Now, what was the last thing I just said?"

Sofia freezes, and a slow, sheepish grin slides into her expression. "oh, well…um…hold it thus?" She tries. Finally he grins, but it's a feral grin and he slides the wand into his shirtsleeve. "Shoo." He says, motioning her towards the door.

Her jaw drops open into a pout. "What?"

"Go on. I don't know what's got you so distracted today, but if you're not going to study, then you're just wasting my time."

Placing a hand against her back, he leads her towards the door but she digs her heels in. "No, I'll be good. Please?"

"No, Princess." The doors getting closer, her eyes widen in desperation.

"That's right, I am your Princess, and you can't just…"

"Oh? And you'll what, have me thrown in the dungeon? Sofia, I have work to do and I have to put it off every time you ask for help with your magic lessons and then, you don't listen anyway. So, out."

"But Ceeedrriiicccckkk."

He pauses and she fights the urge to dance in place. She's got him.

He glares at her. "It's Cedric." He grumbles his hand on the door handle. She smirks. "No it isn't."

His hand falls away to prop against his hip. "Are you telling me I don't know my own name? It's Cedric, not Ceedric."

Sofia turns, falls back so that she's leaning against the door and crosses her arms. Who's distracted now? "I don't think you do, because it's Ceedrick." She grins as his face mashes into a half-hearted glare. "Cedric."

"Ceeeedric." She sings.

"Really, it's so simple. CEDRIC, Said-Rick, how hard is that?" He gripes, turning away from her to stalk back to his desk. She grins, he seems to have forgotten their early argument completely in favor of this one.


	7. History of Sofia - Part 1

**History of Sofia - Part 1**

* * *

Any tale of her childhood must begin with her father.

Robert Knightley came from Enchancia, the third surviving infant born to Hubert and Marie Knightley, and ultimately one of five children. Hubert Knightley was a laborer who dug ditches and broke rocks in exchange for a sack of meal, or a length of cloth, or, if he were lucky, a small coin - whatever he could earn. Marie was a tidy housekeeper who could prepare a feast from a wild rabbit and a few apples. Poor as they were, they managed to keep their family fed and sheltered, and were as content as could be expected.

I should apologize now for a tale which may seem nothing more than a catalogue of sickness and death, but I know very few people whose lives are not measured off by the lives lost around them. Robert Knightley was five years old when his mother and two of his sisters were taken by whatever disease was depopulating Enchancia that summer. His infant sister, Joanne, had been sent for her own safety to an Aunt and Uncle in Fairburn, and there she remained after her mother's death, since her father had no means to care for her. Hubert Knightley kept his two sons, but Richard, the elder, who had always been lazy and troublesome, ran wild without a mother to guide him and, within a year, had run off to join the army, or go to sea, or become some other drain on society, and was never heard of again.

This left Robert and his father with no one but each other. Robert was a stout lad, unafraid to take on the heaviest loads, young as he was. He kept house for his father and, though he burned his share of suppers and broke his share of dishes, the two of them settled into a happy, bachelor existence. Until the day when, digging in the hot sun, Hubert Knightley fell dead in the street, his shovel clutched tight in his hands.

Robert Knightley was nine years old, and was packed off at once to the Aunt and Uncle in Fairburn, to be reunited with a little sister who had no idea who he was. When the Aunt and Uncle had taken in baby Joanne, they had just begun a family of their own. By now, however, there were enough hungry mouths around the table that Robert's was not a welcome sight. Within a matter of days, he was apprenticed and put out to earn his own way in the world.

Fairburn, as you may know, is famous for its woolen trade, and Robert was apprenticed to a weaver named Henri Bernard. Bernard was a good master, and taught Robert everything he knew about wool. Robert was an eager student, and a diligent worker, and Bernard was pleased with his progress. So much so that he brought the boy to the attention of Bill Lockhart.

Bill Lockhart was a cloth merchant, one of the richest men in the town. Sofia remembered knowing him when she was a very little girl. He was immense, to her sight, and moved very slowly, like a drowsy bear. He had no hair, his nose was as broad and flat as his mouth and his skin was as dark as the night sky. He had a low voice, that seemed to be buried somewhere in the earth beneath his feet, and she could remember him bowing to her with a solemn air and asking, "How are you today, Sofia?" He would wait until she had answered, "Very well, sir, thank you," as Papa had taught her, then he would nod and say, "Good," and go on about his business. He was never anything but kind and gentle toward her, but she was always a little afraid of him.

He was one of the richest men in town, but you wouldn't have known it to look at him. He worked hard to present an image of frugality, and strove to convince everyone that he was a close, tight-fisted man with a heart of stone, but he was always undercutting this front with the most startling acts of generosity. For instance, there was the story of José, a young man who had come all the way from Castille with his wife and little else. He had found work as a shepherd on a farm in the neighborhood, but had died within a year of his arrival. His widow had no family at hand, and spoke English only haltingly, but Bill Lockhart just happened to come to the conclusion at about that time that he required another servant in his house, and that José's widow would suit his needs as well as anyone. She became a favored maid to Bill Lockhart's jolly wife, and to his four merry daughters, and learned to speak the local tongue, though always with a charming accent. And you shall hear a little more about her, later.

Now, having met Robert Knightley and heard Henri Bernard's glowing reports of him, Bill Lockhart began to watch the boy's progress. Coming into Bernard's house one day, Bill Lockhart made a great show of going over a bill of sale he had brought with him. Frowning and squinting and looking down his nose at the scrap of paper, he had called Robert over and said, "Make that out for me, boy; my eyes aren't what they used to be." Robert answered that he could not; he did not know how to read. Bill Lockhart exclaimed that this was a fine situation, and demanded of Robert how he had managed to live so long without knowing one letter from another. Declaring the whole sorry state of affairs a disgrace, and taking a winking Bernard to task for neglecting the boy's education, Bill Lockhart arranged on the spot for Robert to go to a tutor three times a week and to learn to read and write and do figures. This was not a common practice, and Robert knew it well, but the more he tried to thank Bill Lockhart for this kindness, the more the old merchant insisted that it was nothing of the sort, that all apprentices were thus educated, and Bernard was a scoundrel for not having taken care of it himself. One way or the other, the result was that Robert _did_ learn. And, by the time he was twenty, he was an educated man who knew everything anyone had ever known about wool, and he was working (and prospering) as Bill Lockhart's assistant.

Bill Lockhart's wife had died by this time, but the Castillian housekeeper was still there, and she became, if not a second mother to Robert, at least a doting Aunt. It was she who was the friend of the farmwife, Mrs. Chesterfield, and she who introduced Robert Knightley to Mrs. Chesterfield's daughter, Miranda.

Miranda Chesterfield was not what the townsfolk would call a great beauty, but as farm girls went, she was quite charming, with her sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks. Robert Knightley was taken with her at once, and she with him. It was a lengthy courtship, since Robert did not feel right about marrying until he could support a wife and family as generously as they deserved. Bill Lockhart gradually nudged him in that direction, however, and Robert and Miranda - nineteen and seventeen respectfully- finally stood up before the local priest, and settled down in a cozy house of their own.

Being a farm girl and not a fine town-lady, Miranda considered herself quite capable of keeping a house and a husband without a royal retinue of servants, and Robert, with his own humble beginnings, and the modest example of Bill Lockhart before him, deferred to her judgment. They hired one woman, a country widow with the constitution of a plowhorse - and a bit of the look of one as well, which had earned her the nickname of Pony. She was a help when it came to the heavy tasks, but Miranda, who was an efficient housekeeper and an excellent cook, took pride in doing nearly everything herself.

Miranda and Robert had been married for almost two years when they found themselves expecting a child. You'd think they were Adam and Eve and no one had ever had a baby before, for all the fuss they made. Miranda was anxious, even though she had Pony at hand, and her own mother not too far away to come in from her farm twice a week. Bill Lockhart stepped in, as well, and lent her his old Castillian housekeeper. The woman was wise in the mysteries of childbirth, and had successfully delivered all five children born so far to Bill Lockhart's own daughters. Her knowledge and attention did a great deal to calm Miranda's fears, and, when the baby came at last, in the wee hours of a July morning, it was the old Castillian woman who caught the child in her hands and joyously exclaimed, "Ah, such a beautiful little girl!"

The old Castillian woman swore by the saints that Miranda's had been the easiest delivery she'd attended in years, and her plump, rosy infant was a marvel of health, but Miranda was so convinced that the midwife had performed nothing short of a miracle that she insisted on naming the baby after her, and Robert, so relieved he would have fainted if he'd been a weaker man, gladly agreed. The old Castillian woman, you'll have guessed by now, was called Sofia.

Thus she had been born on the 22nd of July, and that is how she was christened Sofia Cecile Knightley. It will come as no surprise to you that her earliest memories are of food. She was always in the kitchen, whether she was wanted there or not, with her hands in everything and everything in her mouth. Her mother often took her along to the market, one apron string tied around her wrist so she wouldn't lose her, although Sofia was never a "running off" sort of child. She was a faire child, charming enough to please the vendors, who were always offering bits of fruit or bread or cheese for her to nibble on - mainly as a deterrent to her helping herself.

Papa possessed something almost as fascinating to her as food: Papers. He was not a scholarly man, he never read for pleasure, but he kept his books and accounts and bills of sale, and sometimes, when he was not too busy, he would let his daughter sit in his lap while he went over his Papers. She knew enough to keep her hands to herself and not disturb him, but one evening, while she was sitting with him, she began to wag her tiny finger at the markings on the paper and mutter softly to herself. He stopped and asked her, "Sofia, what are you doing?"

"Nothing, Papa!" She answered promptly, stuffing her fists in her lap and pressing her lips tight shut. "No, you're not in trouble," he laughed. "Tell me; were you reading?" Sofia shook her head and said, "No, I was counting."

"Do you know your numbers? What is this?" he pointed to a "2" and she told him. She told him all the numerals by sight, 1 to 10. Counting by tens or hundreds, or doing figures she had no concept of, but could recognize the numerals, and she knew how many of her fingers they represented. Sofia could recognize a few letters and small words, "laine" (wool) chief among them. Papa took a scrap of paper and wrote and spelled out for her, S-O-F-I-A. And, from then on, she asked everyone she met if they would like to hear her spell her name.

At this point, the market vendors began giving her food to shut her up.

He never said so, but she thought Papa must have been a little sorry that she was not a boy. He was proud of her cleverness, but it must have seemed something of a waste to him. A boy could be a scholar, think great thoughts, make great discoveries, perhaps alter the course of history, itself. A girl, on the other hand, was confined to the domestic sphere, and too much learning was not becoming in a young lady.

Bill Lockhart had gone to his reward when she was six. He had a funeral so elaborate the extravagance would have sent him off in a fit if he hadn't already been dead. Half the town turned out for it, and all she could recall was the scratchy black dress she wore, and how very long and boring the whole business was. Sofia, the Castillian maid who had brought her into the world, was passed on like a family heirloom to Bill Lockhart's oldest daughter, and went to live with her in Caen.

There is very little to say of her mother's family. Her father died the summer after Sofia was born, and her brother, who was quite a bit older and not very close to her, took over the farm and took care of their mother. She remembered Grandmere a little; she had soft, brown eyes, and smiled a lot, and always brought them the most delicious cakes. She was four when she died. Her uncle, who had never married, and had always dreamed of abandoning the farm for travel and adventure, gave up the property and left for just that. Like Papa's brother, they never knew what became of him. Papa was never close to his family in Fairburn, not even his sister, Joanne. They were strangers to him, and he had little in common with them. Joanne married, Sofia didn't remember when, and went away, she didn't know where, and that was the last she knew of her relations.

If her childhood so far sounds idyllic, well, it was. Papa insisted they weren't rich, but they were certainly well enough off. He had no stomach for affectations or vanities, but he was generous in providing for they're comfort. They were as content as could be, right up through her eighth Wassailia. Then, they're lives took a dreadful turn. Papa's life had taken so many turns already, this was just another one for him. But, for Sofia, it was the first real trial she had faced, and her cozy, complacent existence to that point had done nothing to prepare her for it.

When she was nearly six, her father had an attack - she didn't know what else to call it - that laid him in bed for a week. The physicians who were called in could not explain it, and her father ended up coming through it with no help from them. He resumed his old life, and seemed all right at first, but from that point, his health began to decline. This did not happen all at once, you understand; nor in a matter of days, or weeks, or even months. This happened slowly, over the course of almost three years, one step, or drop, at a time. He went from walking, to stumbling, to hobbling with crutches, to losing the use of his legs entirely. His hands, once so skillful, stiffened, and shook, and lost their senses; he would crush an egg in his fist because he could not tell how tightly he was holding it. His sight and hearing faded a little, but, mercifully, were never wholly lost. Worst of all was the toll on his mind and spirit. As his body failed him, and he became more and more dependent on his family for his physical needs, he became more and more like a little child, sometimes cheerful, sometimes petulant, fretful, forgetful, asking the same questions over and over, always needing things explained an extra time or two before they sank in. Eventually, he demanded constant attention. She couldn't begin to describe her mother's patience and gentleness in dealing with her father, or the pleasure she took in finding little ways to comfort him.

Pony was still with them, and tried to take up the slack in the housekeeping, but nothing she did now was good enough for her father, who hated not being able to manage things himself. Eventually, the servant, not angry, but sad and tired, decided that this was not the job she had signed on for, and left to go live with some relatives in the country.

Mama talked about hiring another housekeeper, but Papa had grown anxious about "strangers" in his house. He trusted his wife and daughter, and a few old friends who were kind enough to visit once in a while, but he was wary of anyone else. With Mama having to pick up the slack in their household funds by taking over her husband's business – something unheard of at the time – it was left to little Sofia to handle the household chores.

Miranda could not read or write, and had invented her own rough, but adequate, methods for keeping track of things but under her guiding hand, the business flourished. Papa, however, had taught his daughter the basics of numbers and figures, and Sofia took great pride in making up and keeping her own detailed accounts. She was nine when she took on the task of going to the market alone. Mama was generous with the housekeeping money, but she felt a responsibility to manage it wisely, and always planned carefully for what they needed, and what it should cost.

Many of the market vendors were the same ones who had fed her as a toddler. They respected her father, and understood their situation, and dealt fairly with her. Then came the day, when she had just begun going to market alone, that her usual apple-seller was ill. Her mother wanted apples, though, and they had to come from somewhere, and so she had to deal with another woman, one she did not know well, and who did not know Sofia. A little shy, but putting on her best attempt at a businesslike demeanor, Sofia approached the woman and asked the price of six apples. Her answer was more than she was used to paying, but, with the competition off the field for the day, Sofia accepted it, and took out the money. Besides, the woman had smiled and called her "dearie," which had calmed her initial anxieties, and she was glad to have the deal done so easily.

The apple-seller took Sofia's money and started handing her apples. They were the most pitifully small apples she had ever seen. "I'm sorry," She had gulped, refusing to take them, "but I'd like some bigger ones." She had them; they were clearly visible in the bin.

"My, my," she tittered unpleasantly, putting back the stunted fruit. "What does such a little girl need with big apples? Never mind," she brushed off her own question, and asked for some more money.

"I've already paid you," Sofia said.

"But you paid for the regular apples, not the large ones."

She squirmed and weighed her purse. The timid child with the sick father and too many tasks waiting for her thought for half an instant of taking the puny apples and being done with it. But an indignant voice, just a quaver short of firmness, came out of her mouth from who knew where and said: "I won't pay good money for those; they're not big enough to choke a pig!"

The apple-woman gaped at her in amazement. "What did you say?!"

Sofia was short for her age, of course, but already sturdy and she squared her shoulders and declared, "If you can't give me anything better than that, then give me back my money."

Heaven knows she wasn't as brave as she hoped she appeared, but Sofia was emboldened by the knowledge that her friend the Dairy-man had noticed what was happening, and was looking their way.

The Apple-woman twisted her mouth into a bitter smile and said, "You drive a hard bargain, Miss. Here, let me pick out some nice big ones for you."

Victory! Sofia restrained herself from either cheering or fainting while the woman carefully selected some of her largest apples. Sofia reached up and took the first one she handed to her, and her heart sank. She did not put it in her basket, but handled it thoughtfully.

The vendor saw the girl's frown and said spitefully, "Now I suppose that's too big!"

"No, Ma'm." She glanced at the Dairy-man, who was close enough to hear, and thought, 'well Sofia, might as well be shorn for a sheep as a lamb'. "It's too soft."

"It's what?!" she snarled.

"It's mushy," Sofia insisted, showing the indentation her thumb had left. "And that one," She pointed at the apple in the woman's waiting hand, "has a worm hole in it."

With a barely-suppressed squeal of frustration, she snatched the first apple away, so roughly that it burst into a handful of pulp in her grasp. The Dairy-man laughed out loud.

"I'll thank you to keep out of this," the Apple-woman snorted at him, wiping her hand on her skirt.

The Dairy-man came up beside them and said, "Let Miss Knightley choose her own apples. Or do you want the whole town to know you tried to cheat a little girl?"

She glared at him for a moment, but some of the other vendors and their customers were by now growing curious, and she saw that it would do her no good to hold out.

"All right," The woman snapped at her under her breath. "Take what you like, rob me blind, you little brat. Just be quick about it."

Sofia did not know she was shaking until she felt the Dairy-man's hand on her shoulder, holding her still. He stood right beside her while she picked six, healthy, medium-sized apples from the bin, then he said, "Come along, Sofia; I have some cheese I'd like your opinion on."

She did not know the apple-woman well enough then to be aware that she was generally disliked by the other vendors, but she soon found out. For days after that, the story circulated of how Sofia had stood up to her, and all the good folk she usually bought from praised her and teased her and called her "Brave Sofia," and "Sofia the Ogre-Slayer," and all manner of embarrassing names. She fretted over what Mama would say if the tale of her boldness ever reached her, but if she heard about it, she never let on that she knew.


	8. History of Sofia - Part 2

**History of Sofia - Part 2  
**

* * *

By mid-summer, before her eleventh birthday, Papa was bedridden. He was more than she or her mother could handle, now, and too weak and muddled to care or complain, he finally broke down and let Mama hire a nurse to help tend to him. Sofia helped too. Miranda saw to that, gently coaxing her daughter into feeding him or sitting with him if she felt she was being neglectful. She was still as attentive to him as ever, and Sofia was a little sorry that she was not as good and as patient as Miranda wanted her to be.

Her last memory of her father is of going into his room one afternoon to check on him, as part of her daily routine. He was sleeping, as he was more often than not now. She did not want to wake him, but she slipped her hand into his and stood for a moment, thinking of all that had happened to them. She felt sorry, sorry for him, sorry for herself, sorry that she wasn't a better daughter.

He stirred, and opened his eyes. They were clouded and unfocused, but he had enough vision left to find her. He looked intently at her for a moment, as if he were surprised to see her there - almost as if she were some other, half-forgotten person from his past - and then he smiled. "It's Sofia, Papa," she squeezed the words around the lump in her throat, still not sure if he saw her, or someone else. His cramped fingers tightened around hers for an instant, but she couldn't tell if it was a deliberate or accidental gesture. Then his eyes closed, and he was asleep again, and she left him.

Mama went in to sit with him later that day. When it grew dark, and she still did not come out, Sofia went in to see if she wanted anything. Papa was sleeping; she could hear his ragged breath. Mama was sitting by the bed, her eyes were red and her voice cracked when she turned to her. "What is it, Sofia?"

"Nothing," she whispered. "I came to see if you were all right."

"Fine, fine." She got up and came to wrap her daughter in her arms. "Papa is sleeping. Have you had your supper?"

"Yes." Sofia frowned and hugged her mother's waist. "Mama?"

"It's all right, Sofia," Mama's arm was around her shoulders and she was walking her to the door. "Papa is sleeping, and the nurse is here if I need anything. You've worked so hard. Go and rest."

And so she did.

Her father died that night. Mama had known it was coming and did not want her daughter to see. It was no more than an hour or two after she had spoken to him, and she was still awake. When she heard the news, she wanted to see him. Sofia went into the sickroom bravely enough, but she came out in Mama's arms, dripping with tears. "Come here," Mama sat her down and they spent a good, long while huddled together, Sofia drenching her shoulder while Mama rocked and hushed her. She never knew she could cry so many tears.

Miranda grieved deeply for the loss of her husband, and Sofia wept pitifully for the loss of her father, but then, when the tears had dried, she could feel nothing but relief. She tried to explain it by telling herself that, of course, it was all for the best; he had suffered so much, death could only be a blessing to him. But the truth was, Sofia had reached a point where she could no longer remember a time when he wasn't sick, and she was weary of carrying even her little portion of the burden of caring for him, day after day. God forgive her, she didn't have her mother's patience, and she was glad to have the whole thing over with.

In the end, their lives had revolved so much around his that it was strange at first to be able to think of themselves again. Mama suggested that they hire a housekeeper, but Sofia told her emphatically that she did not want one. The household was theirs now. They had paid dearly for it, and she was not about to give it up. And, after spending so much time taking care of everyone else, she certainly did not need anyone to take care of her. Miranda argued the point, and Sofia knew her mother was only trying to make life easier for them, to give her daughter back some part of the childhood she had lost. She encouraged her to get out and make friends with other girls her age, and she threw little parties and staged little outings for her to meet them. But Sofia did not like the girls she knew. They were silly and stupid and spoiled. And they did not like the odd, plain girl who cared more for cooking and reading than frippery and foolishness. Her friends were the market vendors, who treated her as an adult, and an adult with a nose for a good piece of cheese and an eye for a freshly-caught fish, at that. She was always happiest at home, managing her own small domestic kingdom, and Mama, understanding this, finally gave up on the housekeeper and the neighbor girls and let Sofia do as she pleased.

Sofia's education had fallen into disarray, and Miranda had hired a tutor to put her back on the path. His name was Tom, he was a young man, slight and fair and solemn, and she had a crush on him before she ever knew what a crush was. Mama winked and looked the other way and let her study right alongside him. Tom was nervous at first about having a young lady pupil – Sofia thought he was afraid someone would find out, and he would be burned for heresy or some such thing. "Sofia," he told her early on, "you are a very clever girl." He said it with a touch of surprise in his voice, and a shadow of fearful respect in his eyes, as if he found the notion of female intelligence intimidating – as she was sure he did. Sofia would laugh at him, and tease him, and flirt with him to the extent of her awkward abilities and before long, he grew accustomed to her. She was eleven when he came, and by thirteen she had outgrown her infatuation with him, thanks to the butcher's brown-eyed son, who had begun working in his father's shop that winter. She wasted far too much money on ham that year.

That was the story of her infant love life. Every six months or so, a new infatuation, always directed at some poor lad who could not have cared less for her. She had no idea how to make herself interesting to them, so she pined away hopelessly, and secretly as well, since she had no girl friends to confide in and Mama, always seemed too busy with work otherwise.

She was glad she had survived her crush on Tom, for she was then able to settle into a comfortable friendship with him. His own interest was in the science of herbology and medicine, and he taught her many interesting things. Sofia was intrigued by the deadly qualities of some herbs and the life they could restore if used correctly. This was not a morbid fascination, you understand. She was amazed by the effects certain combinations the herbs had on an ailing body. In early spring, on mist-shrouded mornings, Sofia would be taken into the forest, where Tom taught her how to identify the herbs and then, over long summer days, how to dry and store them. And she learned wondrous things; how, for instance, the herb hellebore, which was found growing on the banks of the river, bears a blossom pearly white and was blessed with the power to drive out evil spirits possessing the mind, but that its root is as black as night and can induce mental or bodily illness, even death.

She learned that angelica fights the Plague and that a mixture of mandrake and henbane kills pain and causes a person to sleep as though dead. All of this and much more she was made to keep in her head, Tom asking questions into the night when all she wanted was to close her eyes and sleep.

She had just turned eighteen, and they were having a hard winter. Talk had begun of a sickness going around, but as yet it had taken only a few, weak, old people and a baby or two. When Mama started a fever and complained of a few aches and pains, Sofia was concerned, but not alarmed. Sofia had fixed supper and gone to bed as usual.

To her distress, Mama was much worse in the morning. She helped the nurse tend to her. It was as if God had said, very well, Sofia, you didn't cry when I took your Papa, let's see how you feel if I take your mother; can I make you cry for her? And, yes, she did cry this time. Not until the day was done, not until Mama was in bed with a nurse to watch over her, and she was alone in her room, but at last, in the dark, she stuffed my face into a pillow and screamed and sobbed for her poor mother until her stomach was in knots, and her jaw ached miserably, and she was as red and as hot as if she had had the fever herself. It was far and away the most brutal pain she had suffered in all of her eighteen years, the prospect that she might lose the only family she had.

Sofia was too numb and defeated to worry; God was beating her down, and repaying her selfishness, and if He wanted to take her mother, her worrying would not stop Him. She did not let Mama see this; she put on a good face for her, and fixed all the dishes she liked, and managed to keep her eating. She was afraid to hope that she would recover, but at least she did not worsen. She hung at some point several steps short of death, weak and lethargic, but safe for the time. Mama talked to her a great deal then, about Papa, and how she had fallen in love with him. She spoke often of their time with him before he was sick, and asked her if she remembered the incidents she would recount, and Sofia always said yes, even though she usually didn't. That was also when she told her the story of how she'd learned to read and count, sitting on his lap while he worked, and she told her honestly that she did not remember that, but she insisted that it was all true.

One time, Mama held her hand and told her, trying to sound as if it were nothing but a passing remark, what a good girl she was, and how clever she was, and how she didn't know how she would ever have managed without her - and by then, she was sorry she'd said anything, because her daughter's face was fairly dripping with tears.. "Now, Sofia," she croaked, giving her hand a slap and a squeeze, "don't get all emotional." And Sofia smiled and said, with a big, noisy sniff, "Don't be silly, I'm not emotional!" And she wiped her face and went to get her mother some supper.

By evening on the fourth day Sofia had a fever. The sickness had taken so long to get to her, she had begun to believe it would pass her by altogether. But, in the morning, she could not get out of bed, and the nurse had two patients to watch. Ironically, it proved to be a bigger help to Mama when she was sick than when she had been well. Jolted by her daughter's illness into realizing that she was on the verge of losing all the family she had left, Mama fought back and made a startling recovery. Oh, she did not regain all her old strength in one day. But, it wasn't long before she was sitting by her daughter's bedside, fussing at her to eat, and exhorting her to fight off her weakness. Although she would never wish to feel so dreadful again, Sofia had a strong constitution and was never in any danger. Before long, she was back to her old self and as healthy as ever.

For a long time after her husband's death, Miranda had been doing business in Enchancia, travelling often between that city and their home in Fairburn. Once spring came, and they were both as healthy as they were likely to get, Mama decided that they should move to Enchancia for good. She said that with the loss of Papa and the sickness, the house made her uncomfortable now. But Sofia suspected another reason.

They had been so cozy together, she and her mother, that she had never pushed her daughter out of the nest, so to speak. Mama assumed that she would live for, oh, half an eternity or so, and, should the day ever come for her to leave her daughter, Sofia would be married off by then. But now Mama had just had a good long visit with her own mortality. In her view, her daughter had to be taken care of, and if she were not here to do it, who would? The pool of appropriate suitors was wider and deeper in Enchancia, and Mama had a large circle of friends there who might prove useful. So, to Enchancia they went.

Sofia was not sorry to go. The only person she was saddened to leave was Tom, her tutor. Mama had to discharge him, of course. Although she no longer had any delusions of being in love with him, she supposed she still would have taken Tom, had a match been arranged. But, there was never any thought given to such a bargain, and, in the end, he married the niece of her friend the Dairy-man. It was a much happier choice for all concerned.

Sofia had some small idea of what Mama was plotting, but she kept her peace. She knew her mother would never press her into a marriage she was unwilling to enter. She tried, again, at nudging her into some friendships with other young ladies, but they were all so pretty and delicate next to plain little Sofia that she grew quite cross with comparing herself to them and ended up right back where she'd started. She was introduced to the sons of the merchants her mother knew. Some, she disliked; some disliked her. One or two were pleasant company and were actually willing to engage in intelligent conversation with her, but the sparks, so to speak, never flew. "Well," said Mama, "you can't rush these things."

"Yes," Sofia said; "I know."

Miranda was called to the kingdom in the summer. She remembered her mother's giddiness at having the chance to meet the royal family. Sofia was given the chance to come along and while her mother was discussing business with the royal advisor, Sofia was left in the hall to wait. That was when she met Cedric, the King's Royal Sorcerer. He was twenty-four to her nineteen, really quite a reasonable balance of ages. She would not say that she fell in love with him at first sight but he did catch her eye. For one thing, he was very tall, a virtue she'd always found appealing, and, added to that, he was fair and fine-featured, with a pair of remarkably piercing amber eyes. He was mature and sensible and yet childish, which earned him high marks in Sofia's books, and seemed older than his years. He had the reputation of a dry old bachelor, even as young as he was.

When her mother began taking frequent visits to the castle at odd intervals of the week, Sofia began suspecting more than simple business affairs. So it came as no surprise when the rumor that Miranda had become the king's mistress had reached her ears. Things moved rather quickly after that. In six short months following the news of her mother's relations, Sofia found herself a step-daughter and a newly crowned Princess of Enchancia, a title her new step-sister resented her for.

Her mother adjusted well to court life however Sofia found the move taxing and more often than not found herself hiding away in her newest and only friend's tower in an effort to escape. It's difficult for her to recount their courtship in any sort of innocent or objective manner. She did know that it was her cooking that first caught his attention. Though she was required to dine with the King during evening meals, she still insisted she cook her own meals even when the servants protested. Finally, they met at a standstill and while she had to be served her meal in the evening, she was permitted to cook anything she pleased in between. It was on one such occasion that she had made a lunch of roasted quail and had taken it to his tower to share. He had praised every dish she set before him and she was too flattered and delighted by his attention not to be smitten with him and she thought that it was at that moment that she saw her future laid out before her.

And so, there is the tale Sofia Knightley, the wool merchant's daughter and the completion of her backwards biography.


End file.
